Hindsight 20-20
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: Being in the same room isn't the same as being together. Someone decides that Dean needs a little extra kick to get him back in gear with his brother before it's too late. [s5, post The End, largely canon compliant]
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: set the morning after The End. This will be three chapters, the first from Sam's POV, the second from Dean's, the third from Dean's first and ending on Sam's. I know I've already done the time travel thing but - actually, I don't have any excuses. I just really love time travel. Enjoy, and let me know what you think. **

**(Yes, I know I promised another DW fic. This one was mostly written already, I promise.)**

**Warnings: strong language, graphic suicide (attempted, technically), not much in the way of happy endings. **

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Sam bit back a groan as he slowly returned to consciousness. He had gone to bed feeling more or less like shit and just trying to get out of sight before Dean started fussing angrily as only Dean could – or worse, ignored him. Sam had hoped that a good night's sleep would be enough to repair the damage the angry hunters had done, or at least take the edge off – of course, it turned out that he had no such luck. Where before he had just been achy and tired, now it felt like he had taken a knife to the gut and a bludgeon to the head. Worse (because pain was easy, pain was familiar) he felt strange and disoriented, not at home in his own skin.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, hoping that the feeling would pass.

Sam shot up in bed, ignoring the fresh pain which flared through his abdomen and head. This wasn't the room he had slouched into last night after Dean tossed the key at him. That wasn't the horrendous flamingo-patterned wallpaper he had considered making a joke about until his tongue proved too heavy and his throat too tight. That wasn't the dingy green carpet he had stared at in order to avoid Dean's eyes.

Had it all been a dream? The phone call, meeting Dean, flinching as the knife appeared only to realize it was being held out to him in reconciliation? It couldn't be. He couldn't bear it. God, he couldn't – he couldn't –

"Sammy! Whoa, whoa, take it easy, man. You'll rip your stitches."

Sam stared, mind going blank with shock, as a very young man rushed from the bathroom and began trying to push him back down. A very young man who looked and sounded a lot like Dean. Exactly like Dean, actually, if Sam's decade-old memories served correctly.

"There a reason you're trying to destroy my handiwork?" young-Dean asked, frowning at him. His eyes weren't as piercing as they should have been. Was it really just the wrinkles at their corners and the circles underneath which gave them their intensity?

"I –" Sam began, and then stopped. His _voice_ – he glanced down at himself and was greeted with the sight of thin, gangly limbs, his shirt riding up to reveal a neat line of stitches in a bruised, undeveloped torso. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered, flopping back and throwing his arm over his eyes. As if they didn't have enough to deal with right now, they had to add freaking de-aging to the list.

"Language, Sammy," Dean chided lightly from above him.

Sam just groaned in reply. At least Dean had gotten zapped back to an age where he could be credibly called an adult. Sam was fucking _sixteen._ Just his luck. "What the hell happened?"

"Black Dog," said Dean, his voice losing its levity. "And if you think we're not having a talk about that stunt you pulled, you've got another thing coming."

"Not _that,_" said Sam, pulling his arm down to wave at the wound. A cursory inspection told him that it hadn't hit anything vital, though it had obviously been deep if he had lost enough blood to black out. Or maybe that had been the head wound. "Forget it, what about _this_?" He gestured sweepingly at the two of them. "Was it angels?"

"Angels?" Dean's frown turned from anger to confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I've lost some time, man, you're going to have to fill me in," Sam informed him, his mind churning through possibilities. If it wasn't angels – maybe a witch? But why would anyone – unless – shit. "Dean, tell me you didn't make any wishes." That would be just their luck, Dean wishing things could be the way they used to be within hearing of some pseudo-benevolent faerie.

"Wishes? I'm twenty, man, not twelve. You sure you're feeling okay?"

". . . twenty," Sam repeated, cold dread trickling behind the dull ache in his stomach.

"Yeah," said Dean, still frowning at him, concern edging its way into his expression and tone. "My birthday was like, a month ago. Just how much time did you lose?"

_A lot, apparently, _Sam thought, and bit back the hysterical laughter which bubbled up in his throat.

"What year is it?" he asked, once he could keep his voice steady. Dean's frown deepened, but he answered.

"Nineteen-ninety-nine."

Sam couldn't quite suppress a slightly high-pitched giggle at that, and Dean eyed him warily.

"I'm calling Dad."

"No!" Sam exclaimed, shooting to his feet as Dean reached for the phone. He stumbled on his unfamiliar limbs, but managed to stay upright. "No, Dean, I'm fine. I was just disoriented, that's all. Weird dreams."

Dean eyed him suspiciously. It wasn't the missing wrinkles that leeched the intensity, Sam was coming to realize. It was the missing years.

"Sit the fuck down," Dean ordered, but he let his hand fall back to his side. Sam sat, and Dean pressed a hand to his forehead. "No fever," he declared, moving his hand to grip Sam's shoulder as he examined his face. "You feel nauseous?"

"No."

"Dizzy?"

"No."

"How many fingers?" Dean flipped him off. Sam scowled. Dean smirked. "Alright, your head's on as straight as it ever is. How about the rest of it? How's the pain? Scale of one to ten."

"I dunno," Sam sighed. "Like, four?"

Dean's face hardened again, his fingers tightening on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm not kidding, Sammy."

"Neither am I," said Sam, taken aback. "It's not that bad, dude. Just a flesh wound."

"Yeah, haha," Dean snapped. "Save the jokes. I've gotta know what's going on before I can help you. Really, how's the pain?"

Sam opened his mouth to protest that it was just a four, really; and what was Dean freaking out over, anyway; they had both dealt with stuff way worse than this, together and on their own, and been up and fighting within the next hour, let alone the next day – but then it hit him. They hadn't. Not this Dean, not the Sammy he was seeing. At this age Sam should have been shaking and sweating from this kind of pain, begging Dean for more painkillers as soon as he was sure Dad was out of earshot.

". . . maybe it's more like a six."

Dean frowned at him, but after a moment he pulled back.

"Fine. I'll get you some more pills."

"Just aspirin."

"Yeah, right. You were nearly gutted, dude. We broke out the oxy."

"Dean, _no_," Sam protested. Pain, he could deal with, but he needed to keep his head clear if he was going to figure this mess out.

"Sam –" Dean began, turning back from the med kit to face him. He stared at him, his face not nearly as blank as he probably thought it was. He was freaked. His little brother was acting weird as hell, and he was completely at loss.

Sam dropped his gaze, a dreadfully familiar feeling of guilt twisting his stomach. After a moment, the bed across from him creaked, and an instant later Dean's hand was on his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"I'll make you a deal, Sammy," he said, with a tenderness in his eyes which was absent in his voice and his touch. "No Dad, no pills. One condition: you tell me exactly what's going on with you, right now."

Sam bit his lip. It was a nervous habit he thought he had given up ages ago, but apparently it was ingrained in the muscle memory of his sixteen-year-old body. Uncertainty gnawed at him, the same old dilemma: to tell or not to tell? This Dean was even more reckless and cocky than his older counterpart, inexperienced and arrogant. But . . . the longer Sam could avoid Dad, the better.

And he was so tired of lying.

"I'm not sixteen."

Dean dropped his hand into his lap, frowning.

"Uh . . . yeah, I know. You're birthday's not for like, four months."

Sam started, glancing down at himself again. Right. Nineteen-ninety-nine. _Early_ Nineteen-ninety-nine. That explained why he was so short, anyway.

"No, I mean . . . I'm not fifteen. It's time travel or something, man. I've got twenty-six years in here."

Dean stared at him.

" . . . I'm calling Dad."

"Dean, _no!_" It wasn't that he hated his dad, not anymore. He understood his dad a lot better than he really wanted to. He had grieved for him when he died. He even missed him sometimes, still. But it was supposed to be buried (or rather, burned) and done with, and John Winchester was always much easier to appreciate at a distance. And there was something else, something he didn't want to name . . .

"You're _sick_, Sam!" Dean snapped over his shoulder, snatching up the phone again. His hands were shaking. "Or – or cursed, or something. Time travel doesn't _happen_, alright?"

"It does; I swear it does. We haven't seen it yet, but it does. Angels can do it." Sam was on his feet, ignoring the pain, nearly vibrating with a desperation he didn't quite understand. All he knew was that he needed Dean to put down that phone, _now._

"Sammy . . ." Dean's eyes were shining, his tone too gentle. "Angels aren't real, man. You know that. Look, we'll figure this out. Dad'll know what to do."

Sam's brain spun into overdrive as Dean began to dial. He was no match for him, injured and half his size, but he _could not _let him complete that call.

He seized the knife from under his pillow, and threw.

"What the _fuck_?!" Dean exclaimed, leaping away from the knife embedded in the wall, receiver and one half of its neatly severed cord still in his hand. "_Sam_—!"

"_He'd kill me_!"

The words echoed in the sudden silence. Dean stared, wide-eyed, and Sam sank back onto the bed, shaking.

"He'd kill me," he repeated softly. "Dad'd kill me." He hadn't realized how strongly he believed it until he said it aloud. If Dad came back and found his youngest son acting oddly – harder, colder, more competent, more deadly . . . . Dad had known that something was wrong with Sam. Maybe he'd known from the start. And he'd been watching. Waiting. Prepared to do whatever he had to. _Dad said I might have to kill you. Dad said . . . _

"He'd kill me," Sam said again, or maybe he'd never stopped saying it.

The phone hit the floor with a _clunk. _

"Sam. _Sammy. _Look at me." Dean was in front of him again, this time grasping his arms, imploring but not demanding, not yet. Sam met his eyes. Young eyes, too old for his face but too young for Sam's big brother, who had been torn apart by demons and put back together by an angel, who had fought against Heaven and Hell and Destiny, who had been betrayed again and again by the one person he should have been able to trust absolutely.

This wasn't that Dean, but he was still Dean, confused and scared and trying not to show it – trying to be strong for Sam, like always.

"No one is going to kill you. You say you've got a head full of future memories? Okay."

". . . okay?" Sam repeated, surprised.

"Okay," Dean confirmed. "I believe you." His lips curled into a smile – a half-truth, but a needed one, for himself as much as for Sam. "No way fifteen-year-old you could throw a knife like that."

Sam tried to respond with his own smile, but it felt twisted and unnatural on his face, and he let it fall away.

"Hey." Dean squeezed his arm, serious again. "We're going to sort this out, okay? But I need you to explain some stuff. Why do you think Dad would kill you?"

Sam dropped his gaze. He did not want to have this conversation, but after that pretty dramatic revelation, he didn't really see a way of avoiding it.

"I'm not . . . clean."

"Clean?" Dean repeated, letting go of his arms to sit down on the bed across from him.

"Clean, pure . . . safe, whatever you want to call it." Sam spoke quickly, avoiding his eyes, trying to disconnect from what he was saying. He didn't want Dean to know this. Not this Dean, who still thought he was trustworthy. Not any Dean, but he had already fucked that up in the future. "I have this . . . potential. To be something really – really dangerous. Something evil. And Dad knows about it. He knows that there's a part of me which is . . . not good. And if he notices that I'm acting weird, and he thinks that part of me is taking over . . ."

". . . you think he'd kill you," Dean concluded. His tone was unreadable, and when Sam risked a glance at his face, it was, as well. "Sam . . . you're not – Dad wouldn't –"

"Don't!" Sam snapped. "Just . . . don't."

"Alright," said Dean, running a hand over his face. "Alright."

He didn't believe him, Sam could tell. He believed that Sam believed it, and that was enough for the moment, but he didn't really believe that Dad would do something like that. A little part of Sam wanted to seize him by the shoulders and shake him until he saw the truth – _Dad would do it he knows what I am what I could become what I __**will **__become you wanted to kill me yourself maybe you still do –_ but mostly, he was too tired.

"But, dude, you can't avoid Dad forever," Dean pointed out. "Who knows how long you'll be stuck like this, and even if we get another hunt soon, he's gonna be here tonight."

"God," Sam groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey, man, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay?" Dean said, cuffing him gently on the head. "Thirty years of memories or not, you're still my little brother."

"It's twenty-six years," Sam retorted, a genuine smile finding its way onto his face for the first time that morning. "And next year, I'm going to be taller than you."

"Yeah right, Shorty," Dean snorted. "Anyway, this Dad thing . . . try and act normal. Like, teenage-you normal. Just . . . bitch and moan and roll your eyes a lot. He'll never notice the difference."

Sam glared, and Dean grinned.

"Hey, you think fifteen-year-old you is still in there? Maybe you could just kind of . . . step back and let him take over for a while."

Sam thought. He had enough experience with sharing his headspace, willingly or otherwise. He should be able to tell . . .

"No, it's just me." He shrugged. "I dunno, maybe we switched places."

"But he'll be okay?"

Sam hesitated. If Dad would react badly to fifteen-year-old him acting strange, how would Dean react, already knowing how far Sam could fall? At fifteen he had been snappish and surly, angry at Dad for the life they led, angry at Dean for embracing it, angry at himself for going along with it. At thirty Dean was frustrated and bitter, angry at the world for what it had tossed at them, angry at Sam for . . . everything. How long would it take for them to infuriate each other enough that Dean forgot he was dealing with a kid in a man's body?

Young-Dean was frowning, green eyes expectant and fearful. He cared so damn much. Sam found his heart was still in pieces big enough to break.

"Yeah," he lied, hating himself. "He'll be okay."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean could not fucking believe this.

As if it wasn't enough that they had angels coming at them from one side and demons from the other, that a couple of archangels with daddy issues wanted to wear them to the prom, that the world was coming down around their ears because Sam had _started the goddamn apocalypse. _No, now he had to deal with fucking amnesia too.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Hunting. Somewhere in the Appalachians. We were going after a Black Dog."

Sam looked strangely small where he sat huddled on the bed, eyes wide and scared and _young._ Sam hadn't looked young in . . . years. Dean jerked his gaze away.

"We haven't hunted a Black Dog since you were a kid."

"I'm not a kid." Sharp, verging on petulant, genuine vintage Sammy. They were so goddamn screwed.

"Whatever." Dean dropped into one of the wobbly chairs, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh. "Okay, so you think you're fourteen?"

"Fifteen."

"Fine." He kept his eyes on the whiskey bottle in front of him. He didn't want to look at Sam, didn't want to see his baby brother staring out at him. That kid was long gone. This is just an echo, an illusion, and he refused to be taken in by it. There was only one thing to do with ghosts. He surged to his feet.

"Dean?"

"I'm gonna figure out what the hell happened, and then I'm gonna fix it."

"I'll help," said Sam immediately. He stumbled a little as he rose on unfamiliar legs.

"No," said Dean shortly, finally turning back towards his brother. Sam faltered a little at his expression, but Dean found he didn't have the energy to feel bad about it. "_You_," he continued, jabbing an authoritative finger at Sam's chest, "are going to stay here, in this room, and do _nothing._ No research, no phone calls, and don't even _think_ about touching the bags."

"_What?!_" Sam exclaimed, and his expression of adolescent indignation was almost surreal to see on his adult face. "Dean, just because I'm not thirty years old doesn't mean I can't _read_. Just drop me off at the library –"

"No way in hell," Dean cut him off. "I left you in our motel room for five fucking minutes and you managed to get fucking amnesia; you're not going anywhere." He was being harsh and he knew it, but he didn't care. He was getting sick and tired of cleaning up Sam's messes.

"Dean, you _know _I can handle myself!"

Dean snorted derisively. Sam could handle himself alright – up until some demon bitch caught his eye.

"It's like you don't trust me."

Dean suppressed a flinch, pain shooting through him and swiftly hardening into anger. He turned away, snatching up his jacket.

"That's right, I don't," he snapped over his shoulder. "So _stay_."

"But –"

"_That's an order!_" Dean yanked the door open, preparing to step out into the chilly night air.

"Whatever you say, _Dad_."

Dean froze. _Walk away walk away he's fifteen you're gonna regret this –_ He felt his grip loosen from the doorknob, felt himself turn, felt the glare that made Sam shrink back, felt the white-hot liquid fury pour off his tongue –

"You wanna know why I don't _trust _you, Sam? Maybe it's because you chose some skanky demon chick over me. Maybe it's because I fucking _died_ for you, and you lied to my face. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because you _started the goddamn apocalypse!_"

Sam's face crumpled, and Dean turned away. He already felt sick as the door slammed behind him, but he didn't look back. He couldn't deal with this shit. He was so goddamn tired. He just couldn't – he couldn't –

He drove. Didn't even pretend to look for a library, found a bar instead. He had fucked up. He knew he had fucked up. Now he had a whole new mess to clean up, and this one was entirely his fault. He'd just yelled at a kid. A fucking _kid_. And not just any kid, but _his_ kid, his Sammy, who didn't remember doing any of that shit, who was only guilty of brooding too much and having terrible taste in music.

He was a fucking asshole.

Four drinks in, with the late-night crowd beginning to descend, he tried calling, muttered an oath when no one picked up. If Sam thought he was in nineteen-ninety-nine, of course he wouldn't know how to use a smartphone. And what had Dean said to him? _No phone calls. _

Downing one last drink for the road, Dean got more-or-less steadily to his feet.

When he got back to the motel, the room was dark. Cursing, hoping that the kid had just decided to turn in for the night, he swung the door open. Sam was still there, alright – but not sleeping. He was curled in the middle of his bed, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes damp and luminescent in the yellow light of the streetlamp.

"There a reason you're sitting in the dark?" Dean asked, flicking the switch. Sam flinched, though whether it was from the light or his voice, Dean didn't know. "Look," Dean sighed, shutting the door behind him and sinking onto his own bed. "What I said . . . it wasn't fair."

"You don't have to apologize," said Sam quietly.

"I'm not. I'm just – explaining, okay? You're not – evil, or anything." He probably wasn't saying this right, but he was never great with words, even when he was sober. He began unlacing his boots, if only to avoid meeting Sam's eyes. "I mean, it's not like you were trying to start the apocalypse. You got played."

"By who?"

"Demons, angels, I don't know man, everyone. It was a giant cosmic conspiracy."

"Why me?"

Dean shrugged, or tried to, which it turned out was not the smartest thing to do with his shirt halfway over his head.

"Some Heaven-Hell-prophecy bullshit," he answered once he managed to get himself untangled. "You're the devil's Chosen One or whatever the fuck." He realized, belatedly, that he was probably not being very reassuring. "Look, man, don't worry about it. It's done with. Just go to sleep, we'll call Bobby in the morning, get this all sorted out."

"Alright," said Sam. "I understand. Goodnight, Dean."

There was something off about his tone, something way too calm, but Dean was drunk and exhausted and he could already feel sleep weighing down his eyelids and whatever the fuck was going on in Sam's head, it could wait until morning.

"Night."

Dean was asleep before he hit the pillow.

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Sunlight lanced its way through the gap in the curtains and directly into Dean's brain. He gave a groan which ended with a curse and threw an arm over his eyes. Thankfully, the room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Cursing again, he pushed himself upright, eyes raking over the conspicuously empty room.

"Sam?"

Silence. He hauled himself up, ignoring the throbbing in his head. Sam's bag was gone. He pushed the bathroom door open and flicked on the light – nothing. Even Sam's dumb purple toothbrush was gone. The second bed was neatly made, didn't even looked slept in. It was like he'd never been here.

Cursing even more viciously in an attempt to drown out the sound of his stomach hitting the ground, he yanked out his phone and hit two on speed dial.

"_Singer._"

"Bobby, thank god."

"_Dean?_"

"Yeah, it's me. Look, I need your help." Dean sank onto his bed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Sam's taken off. He was acting all weird last night, and now he's just . . . gone."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy sigh.

"_How much have you had to drink, son?_"

"What?" Dean asked incredulously. "Bobby, it's nine AM. I'm hung over, not drunk. I had like four drinks last night; I'm fine. Sam's the one who was acting nutty; he had amnesia or something, thought he was fifteen. I think I might've spooked him," he added, a fresh layer settling on top of his ever-present heap of guilt. "He could be heading your way."

There was another silence, and when Bobby spoke again his voice was gentle, sad.

"_I think maybe you should head up here yourself._"

"Why?" asked Dean sharply, suspicion kindled. "Has he talked to you? Is he –" He frowned, judging the distance. Not _that_ far. Difficult by public transport, but if Sam had jacked a car – he knew how at fifteen, though he hadn't been happy about it. "Is he there?"

"_Dean . . . trust me on this one. Here's where you need to be._"

"Bobby," Dean all but growled, anger boiling in his chest. Bobby knew better than to play games like this when Sam's safety was on the line. "This is _Sam._ If you know something –"

"_I know where he is_," Bobby interrupted. "_I know where your brother is, Dean._" And damned if it didn't sound like every word was torn from his throat, and that was not at all reassuring. "_Come up here and I'll show you._"

"Fine," Dean snapped. He didn't have time for this. "Fine, but this had better be good." He hung up, furious again, at Bobby for being so damn shifty, but also at Sam for being such a melodramatic little shit, and _was this really fucking necessary? _He shoved his things into his bag, muttering under his breath about idiot little brothers and their stupid fucking theatrics. Couldn't do a single damn thing the easy way.

Three hours to Sioux Falls; three hours of glancing reflexively at the passenger seat to find it empty, of having to squash instinctive panic every time he did. Sam was fine. He was just sulking at Bobby's, probably listening to emo music and looking tragic enough to get Bobby worried. Little bitch. Dean was going to kick his ass for freaking him out like that.

Finally, finally, he pulled into the junk yard. Not bothering to check his anger, he surged up the stairs and pounded on the door.

"Alright, alright, hold your horses!" Bobby pulled the door open. His face softened slightly, but that wasn't what Dean was paying attention to.

"Bobby!" he exclaimed, gaping. "You – you're – what the hell?"

"That's a good question," said Bobby, raising his eyebrows. He stepped back – _stepped_ back, on his own two feet; limping but steady – to clear the doorway. "You feeling any better?"

"Christo."

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"I'm me, you idjit. You gonna stand on my porch all day, or are you gonna come in and eat something?"

Dazedly, Dean stepped inside. Bobby closed the door behind him.

"Bobby, what – ? Not to be insensitive or anything, but – how are you _walking_? Last I checked you were rocking some pretty permanent wheels."

"Well maybe if you checked in more often you'd be more up to date," Bobby retorted. "Got all that sorted out a while ago. The wonders of modern medicine."

"Okay. Well." Dean shook his head and followed Bobby into the kitchen. That was – weird, and required more explanation, but it could wait. Sam was in trouble. Or if he wasn't, he was damn well going to be. "Congratulations and all, but I still need to know where Sam is. Kid couldn't even be bothered to leave a goddamn note."

Bobby flinched.

"Sit down, son."

"Bobby?"

"Just – sit down."

Dean sat. Bobby sat down across from him, and sighed. Dean's blood ran cold. He hadn't seen Bobby look this broken up since – hell, since he was trapped in a dream with his dead wife.

"Dean . . . think about your brother. Really think. What's the last thing you remember?"

Dean stared at him incredulously, but Bobby just stared heavily back, so Dean complied.

"Last night. I came back from the bar; he was all weird and quiet; I apologized for yelling at him. He said he understood, and I went to sleep."

"What did he look like?"

"What do you mean, what did he look like? He looked like Sam. Super tall, puppy-dog eyes, needs a haircut. Bobby, what –"

"Sam's dead, Dean."

Dean froze. Bobby's face was serious, eyes sad. He knew better than to joke about something like this. He _knew _better –

"No."

"He's been dead a long time."

"No!" Dean was on his feet. He couldn't remember how he got there. "You're lying. You're not you." But it was Bobby, he knew it was; otherwise his gun would have been in his hand by now. It was Bobby and he wasn't lying but it didn't make any sense, it couldn't be true –

"Check your wallet."

"What?" asked Dean, and his voice sounded weak and choked to his own ears.

"Just do it, Dean. Look in your wallet."

Numbly, Dean obeyed. Inside the battered leather case was a few bucks of cash, a couple fake credit cards, and . . . a piece of paper. An old, yellowed piece of paper, carefully folded and refolded a thousand times. A piece of paper which had definitely not been there before. He pulled it out with shaking fingers.

"He did leave a note," said Bobby, from very far away.

_Dean,_

_I'm sorry. Sorry you had to find me like this, sorry I couldn't explain everything face to face. I wanted to. So many times, I wanted to just tell you everything, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to go through with it then. And anyway, you've always had enough on your mind without me crying on your shoulder. I know I wasn't very good at it, but I tried to be strong for you. That's why I didn't do this before, but now I know it's the only way. _

_You know that weird stuff a couple weeks ago? Well I know you weren't telling me the whole truth about that, but I don't hold it against you. I wasn't telling you everything, either. I saw the future, Dean. I saw what I'd become. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I ended the world. By accident, maybe; I didn't get all the details, but it was me. Had to be, apparently. _

_I can't let that happen. _

_I know it's too much to ask for you to forgive me, but please try to understand. It's better this way. For the world, and for you. You still have Dad, and hunting, and the Impala. That's all you really need. _

_I know we don't say it, but I figure if there's ever a time to get sappy, it's now. So . . ._

_I love you._

_Jerk._

_Sam_

Dean sank back into his chair. He couldn't – no. No. This wasn't – _no. _

"You remember?" Bobby asked gently.

No. No, this wasn't right. Sam was _alive. _Hollow and hurting, desperate and damned, but alive. Dean remembered –

_Dean remembered fidgeting in the passenger seat of Dad's truck because Sam hadn't called at check-in, remembered Dad telling him to stop worrying, that Sam had probably just fallen asleep, remembered seeing Dad's eyes flicker towards the clock and his foot press down on the accelerator and knowing he was lying to them both –_

_Dean remembered breaking down the door when his shaking hands couldn't slide the key in, remembered ice flooding his veins as he took in the empty room, remembered catching sight of light under the bathroom door with hot relief, remembered turning the knob with an annoyed quip on his tongue –_

— _nononononono oh god no –_

"No," he said, or maybe he never stopped saying it. That wasn't right. Sam had made that check-in, sounding tired and morose. Dean had stopped at a take-out place with a decent salad selection for dinner and walked through the motel room like a returning hero. Dean remembered Sam smiling at him, sitting a little closer to him than was strictly necessary, looking at him like – like he had saved his life. Dean remembered getting kind of worried, convincing Dad to let them take it easy for the next few days. Dean remembered –

–_skin already cold no pulse in his pale pale neck no breath from his blue lips no life in his dull eyes Sammy Sammy __**Sammy **__–_

"That's not what happened," Dean said, because it _wasn't_, it fucking _wasn't, _he remembered taking Sam out to ice cream the next day, Sam complaining that he wasn't a little kid anymore but ordering a banana split anyway, poking at it moodily while Dean tried awkwardly to talk to him. _"So, uh, you doing okay, Sammy?" "Yeah, Dean, I'm fine. Why the fuck wouldn't I be." "I dunno. You just seem kinda . . . more emo than usual." _He remembered Sam's petulant glare, his own helplessness has he scrambled to revive the conversation which had never really begun. _"You know you can talk to me, right? I mean, if something's really up." _He remembered Sam's hesitation, his eyes shining with everything they left unspoken, and the final floppy-haired headshake. _"Yeah, I know." _He remembered –

_He's gone, said an EMT. For an hour, at least. Put him down DOA._

_There was a sound like the howl of a dying animal. It wasn't until a blue-gloved hand plunged a needle into his arm that Dean realized it was coming from him. _

"It was more than a decade ago, now," Bobby said, sad but calm, old pain. "Nineteen-ninety-nine. You and your daddy were on a hunt, and Sam . . . Sam swallowed a bottle of pills. Oxy. He was smart about it; you couldn't have gotten there in time, even if you'd known. They had to sedate you to get you away from the body."

_The body. Sammy, so small and pale and cold. We'll give him a hunter's funeral, Dad said, something uninterpretable in his eyes. So they did. Dean lit the pyre and watched his whole world burn to ash. _

"Dean." Bobby laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You with me, son?"

"This isn't right."

"No, it's not. But it's the way it is."

"No, Bobby, _this isn't right_," Dean got to his feet again, hands still shaking but his mind burning with that one absolute truth. This. Was not. Right. "I remember what happened, alright, but the way that I'm remembering it now is not the way it happened! This is just more fucking timeline bullshit, it's –" He stopped, realization hitting him. Fuck. _Fuck._ "God _fucking _dammit it wasn't fucking amnesia it was goddamn time travel. 'Saw the future.' _Shit._"

"What the _hell_ are you talking about, boy?"

"Bobby, what do you know about angels?" Dean asked, rounding on him with new intensity. He could fix this. He _would_ fix this.

"Know? Nothing. There's plenty of lore, but nothing concrete. No one's seen one in two thousand years."

So it had worked. No Sam, no apocalypse.

Fuck that. Nothing was worth Sam's life. Not a single damn thing. Not the whole damn world.

"So it can't be those dicks," said Dean, beginning to pace restlessly. He just needed to figure it out. Someone had something to gain from this. "They wanted the whole fuck-up. What about Yellow-Eyes, what happened to him?"

"John got him, five years ago. Died doing it. You were _there_, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever," said Dean, waving off his concern. Not Yellow-Eyes, then. "The other demons, who's in charge now?"

"How should I know? I don't make a habit of inviting demons over to chat about their boss."

Dean gave a growl of frustration.

"Alright, alright, probably not demons anyway. Bobby, what things do you know of that can time-travel?"

"Time-travel? Well, there are stories here and there, but Dean . . . they're not even lore, just stories demons tell around the campfire."

"_What things, Bobby_?"

"Don't take that tone with me, boy," Bobby said warningly. "You know you can't scare me."

"Sam's _dead,_" Dean snarled, fist hitting the table with a _bang_. "He's dead and he's _not fucking supposed to be,_ so you'd better be fucking scared because I'm gonna find the thing that did this and I'm gonna tear it to _fucking_ pieces!"

"Tsk, tsk. Is that the best you can come up with?"

Dean spun around as Bobby sprang up with a curse.

"Son of _bitch!_"

The Trickster grinned.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: Final chapter! Thanks to everyone who read this story, and doubly so to anyone who favorited and/or reviewed. Your feedback and encouragement mean a lot to me. **

**Onward!**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Dean glared at the Trickster, fingers twitching to wrap around his neck, but he managed to restrain himself. He needed to know what was going on, and more importantly, he didn't have a stake dipped in the blood of its victim.

"You know this guy, Dean?" Bobby asked sharply.

"I don't need you," said the Trickster, and snapped his fingers.

Bobby disappeared.

"You bring him back you fucking –"

"Relax, Dean-o, he's just a couple towns over. He'll make his way back in a few hours." The Trickster pushed away from the wall he had been lounging against. "'Course, if you learn your lesson, he technically won't exist in a few hours. Interesting metaphysical dilemma."

"What do you mean, if I learn my lesson?" Dean growled.

"Think about it for a second. What do I do?"

"You fuck with people," Dean replied immediately.

The Trickster rolled his eyes as he moved over the fridge.

"What _kind_ of people do I fuck with?" he prodded, voice echoing slightly as he rooted around inside.

"Dicks. And Sam," Dean added, because Sam was a lot of things, some of them pretty bad, but he wasn't a dick. "Is that what this is about? Fucking with Sam? Because that didn't work out so hot for you last time."

"Is that really what passes for logic with you people?" the Trickster asked rhetorically, emerging with a jar of maraschino cherries. "Sam isn't here, genius. He's _dead. _Offed himself, ten years ago. Never even graduated high school."

Dean flinched, white-hot fury flaring in his chest. He didn't care that he didn't have a stake; he didn't care that even with one the Trickster had always managed to elude them. He surged forward, slamming the shorter being into the counter.

The jar of cherries hit the ground and shattered.

"You bring him back," Dean snarled. "You bring him back or I swear to god I will hunt you down and make you _wish _that I had killed you."

"I didn't kill him," said the Trickster, unfazed. "I just pulled a little switch-a-roo. You did the rest. Some of my more elegant work, I think."

"So, what?" Dean spat, letting him go and backing up a few steps. There was guilt roiling in his stomach like acid, but he refused to let it win. This was on the Trickster. "You want to show me I'm being a dick to Sam? Alright, I get it, I'm being a dick to Sam. I think I've earned the right. But he's not fucking fifteen anymore; he can deal."

The Trickster stared at him with something that looked a hell of a lot like disbelief.

"I'm going to have to spell it out for you, aren't I? Fine."

The Trickster snapped his fingers.

Dean jerked back with a curse as their surroundings shifted abruptly, then stumbled on the knobby carpet which had replaced the hardwood.

"Where the fuck are we?" he snapped.

"A motel room. Now ask when we are."

Dean scowled. The Trickster sighed dramatically.

"You have no sense of drama. We're in your original timeline, a week ago."

Dean glanced around the room, eyes raking over the salt across the doorway, the sigils on the windowsill, the familiar bag tossed on the other side of the bed.

"This is Sam's room," he stated.

"Very good," said the Trickster with mock approval. He brought his wrist up to his eyes with a flourish, and it was suddenly equipped with a flashy digital watch. "And we're live in three . . . two . . . one."

The door opened.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, relief flooding him. His brain caught up with his eyes a moment later. Sam looked like shit. His shoulders wear slumped with exhaustion, and yellowing bruises stood out on his sickly-pale face. He also didn't react to Dean's voice.

"He can't hear you," said the Trickster, loudly and slowly as if explaining something very obvious to someone very slow. "We're not in the same timestream, Bozo. Now pay attention."

As if Dean would be doing anything else. His eyes were fixed on Sam as he pulled a prescription from his inside pocket, dropped the bag in the trash, and set the bottle on the table. The label read 'Oxycontin.'

Dean's blood ran cold.

"You know, funny thing," said the Trickster conversationally. "I must have gone through thousands of timelines trying to find the right point to switch him around from – and first of all, let me tell you, your Sammy is a poster child for suicide risk. Something like half the timelines he offed himself. But, point is, he usually goes for the pills first. Doesn't like to leave a mess. He's considerate that way. _You_, on the other hand –"

"Shut up," Dean ordered, and he didn't even care that his voice was shaking. Sam was carefully tidying up the room, smoothing the sheets, removing his knife from beneath the pillow. Putting his affairs in order, the Winchester way. As a final touch, he opened his phone, punched in Dean's number, and set it, unsent, on the table.

"Dammit Sammy," Dean muttered. "Just call me."

"He did," said the Trickster. "I think your exact words were 'pick a hemisphere.'"

Dean swallowed.

"This isn't real," he said thickly, his voice echoing strangely through the almost silent room and his numb and empty chest. "Sam's alive. He must've changed his mind."

The Trickster shrugged noncommittally.

Sam moved to the tiny linoleum-floored kitchenette and filled a glass. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His face was dry and his hands were steady.

"_Sam_," Dean pleaded.

Sam opened his eyes. For a dizzying instant, Dean thought he had heard him – but then Sam snatched up the bottle, and in one, two, three swallows, the pills were gone.

Dean stood frozen in shock, staring at his terrifyingly calm little brother He couldn't process what was happening. This didn't make any goddamn sense. Sammy was alive. Sammy was –

— listing to the side, catching himself on the counter before sinking to the floor, head flopping against the cabinet with a painful-sounding _thunk._

"S'rry," Sam slurred groggily, tears finally beginning to fill his eyes. "'M s'rry. Gonna be okay now. 'M gonna sleep."

"No!" Dean argued desperately, dropping down so he was eye-level with Sam – not that Sam could tell. Probably he was too far gone to understand even if they had been in the same timestream or whatever, and Dean's stomach turned at the thought. "Sam, c'mon, don't do this."

But Sam's breathing was already becoming slow and uneven, his eyelids sliding shut and sending tears coursing down his face.

"Sam . . ." Dean whispered brokenly. This wasn't real. This wasn't real. _Ohgoddon'tletthisbereal. _

"Calm down," said the Trickster from behind him. "It's not like it's permanent. Watch."

Sam's chest stilled. His body slumped as his last breath left him. He was gone.

. . . Until a moment later, when he gasped awake again, cursing between his ragged breaths as he scrambled to his feet.

"How . . . ?" Dean questioned, relieved and bewildered.

"Lucifer," said the Trickster flatly. "Doesn't want his best suit self-destructing before he has a chance to show it off."

Dean never thought he'd be grateful to the Devil, but right now he was coming pretty close.

"Fine," Sam spat, fury replacing his cold calm, and Dean hated to admit that it was a huge improvement. "You want to play that way? Fine. _Fine._"

"Thing about your brother, though," said the Trickster as Sam dug through his bag. "He's too damn persistent for anyone's good. None of this is gonna work – "

Sam straightened up with his .45 in hand. Dean barely had time to feel his stomach sink with dread before Sam put it to his temple and pulled the trigger. Sam dropped, half his head blown across the wall, and gasped back to life again in the time it took for Dean to empty his stomach onto the floor.

"— but if you keep going like you're going, he's going to find a way to make it stick," the Trickster continued as if nothing had happened, as if Dean's baby brother hadn't just put a bullet through his brain, as if he wasn't reaching for a knife and dragging it up his arm with gritted teeth –

"Stop him," Dean said, and he didn't care that he was pleading, didn't care about anything except Sammy, sliding to the floor with blood pouring from his arms, thinking this was the only way, thinking he didn't even have to leave a goddam _note_ –

"Haven't you been listening?" the Trickster demanded. "He'll be fine. Or he might be, anyway, if you get your head out of your ass. I couldn't care less about your little lover's spat, but if Sammy-boy manages to shuffle off this mortal coil it throws a _major _wrench in my plans."

"I don't give a _fuck_ about your _plans_," Dean snarled, and Sam was alive again, starting to sob now, awful, gut-wrenching sounds of pure desperation as he snatched up the shotgun this time and put it in his mouth – "He's my _brother_."

"Brothers destroy each other all the time," said the Trickster snapped.

Sam pulled the trigger. Dean dry heaved as another splash of blood and brain and bone painted the wall.

"Okay, okay," the Trickster conceded, and snapped his fingers just as Sam revived. The room froze, tears glistening on Sam's cheeks, despair in his eyes. "I think I've gotten through your thick skull by now."

"Send me back," Dean demanded, voice colored by fury and grief in equal parts. "Send me back to him or so help me –"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll tear me into little pieces and feed me to myself," said the Trickster, rolling his eyes. "If I had known it was as simple as showing you this – eh, I still would have done the rest of it. It was too poetic to pass up. But all good things must end."

The Trickster snapped his fingers.

.

.

.

Sam sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes as he tried to figure out what had his gut churning with even more anxiety than usual. He must have been dreaming. He remembered something about Dean, young and wide-eyed, and a wound in his side, and dreading Dad's return . . .

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice was thick with sleep.

"I'm fine," he said, as lightly as he could manage, trying not to show how affected he was by the familiar nickname, undoubtedly let slip in a moment of confused grogginess. "Weird dreams."

"_Sammy_," Dean repeated, and Sam looked up, startled. What he had mistaken for sleep thickening his brother's voice was something else entirely, and before he could work out what it was Dean had crossed the gap between them and pulled him into a rough embrace. He was shaking, Sam noted with alarm.

"Dean –" He stopped as a thought occurred to him. "That _was_ a dream, wasn't it?"

Dean wasn't listening, too busy grabbing his arm and forcibly flipping it over, staring at his forearm as if it was evidence of some horrible crime, all the while choking out incoherent curses as his eyes swam with tears.

"Dammit, _dammit_, don't you _fucking _– shit, shit –"

"Dean," said Sam, by now thoroughly freaked. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Dean repeated, anger suddenly flaring as it always did, eyes snapping up to meet Sam's. "You tried to fucking _kill yourself_, Sam!"

Sam's stomach sank. He didn't know how Dean had found out, had certainly never expected him to, at least not while they were both still alive.

"I . . ." Sam looked at Dean, furious and terrified, supporting his shaking form with the rickety motel bed, damp eyes begging for some kind of – what? Explanation? Sam had all his reasons laid out in his mind, always, cold and logical and implacable, just waiting for him to find a method that would stick – but of course, that wasn't what Dean needed. He knew the reasons. He had to. He wasn't asking why Sam had tried to kill himself, he was looking for reassurance that it would never happen again.

Sam couldn't give him that.

"I didn't think you'd . . ."

"Didn't think I'd what? _Care_?"

Dean was staring at him with horror and incredulity, but all Sam could do was shake his head helplessly. Of course he knew that Dean would care – but he had figured it would be in an abstract, removed way, more grief for the memory of what they had been than this raw, bleeding pain.

"Sam – _Sammy_," Dean grasped him by the shoulders, hands strong for all their trembling, eyes desperate. "I've been a dick, alright, I know I have, but dammit, I'd be one bullet behind you."

Sam shuddered. He believed him, it was impossible not to, but he didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell him it would be alright, couldn't tell him the thought wouldn't continue to gnaw at his mind as Lucifer filled his dreams and the world slid further towards disaster, couldn't make any more promises that he'd never be able to keep.

"I'll do better, Sammy," Dean said, and he meant it. He always did. That didn't make it true. "We're in this together, you and me. We'll get through this."

Sam closed his eyes, and wished he didn't know it was a lie.


End file.
